


John Watson and the Three Spirits (aka A Ghost Story of Christmas)

by PipMer



Category: A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Happy Ending, Inspired by A Christmas Carol, M/M, Post-Season/Series 04, Romance, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-09-13 07:54:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16888584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/pseuds/PipMer
Summary: John hadn’t planned on becoming a grumpy old man. Well, he wasn’t old quite yet. But he wasn’t getting any younger, and as he thought back on his life so far this Christmas Eve, he was coming up with a lot of regrets.He had been here before, at a crossroads. Feeling as if his life were over, only to have it turned around in the blink of an eye. Could it happen again? Or was it finally, truly, too late?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, yesterday this GOD-FORSAKEN plot bunny bit me and wouldn't let me rest until I wrote it down. This original, never-before-written Sherlock/A Christmas Carol fic (that was a joke, in case you weren't aware. Except the casting of John Watson in the role of Scrooge might be a novel idea. I'm not really sure). 
> 
> Anyway -- the plan is to finish posting before Christmas Day. If the fates allow.
> 
> Enjoy.

**tw for this chapter: drinking while depressed**

 

 

John was forty-nine years old, and he couldn’t remember a lonelier Christmas Eve. Well, he _could_. There were the Christmases he spent in Afghanistan, far from everyone and everything he loved. Then there were the first two Christmases after Sherlock’s fake suicide, when he felt all but abandoned by both family and friends. He spent the Christmas Eve before Sherlock shot Magnussen holed up in Baker Street with his best friend, but everything was awkward between them and he still felt alone.

This time, though, the blame for his loneliness lay squarely on his own shoulders. There were plenty of places he could go to celebrate the season. He had both friends and family who would welcome him with open arms. He always had standing invitations from a variety of people who wanted to spend the holidays with him: the Stamfords, Greg and Molly, Harry and Clara, Mrs Hudson.  For the past three years, he always declined, preferring to hole up inside his home, just him and Rosie. And while she was younger, it had worked like a charm. Her childish innocence demanded little from him, and was easily entertained by the simplest things that require little effort on his part.

But she would turn ten this spring. She could sense the miasma of misery that John had let himself fall into, and wasn’t shy about voicing her displeasure. Harry and Clara had picked her up earlier that afternoon, with plans to return her on Boxing Day. They once again extended their invitation for him to join them the following day for Christmas dinner, and he once again declined. John didn’t miss the concerned look Harry threw his way as they made their way out the door.

He hadn’t planned on turning into a grumpy old man. Well, he wasn’t old quite yet. But he wasn’t getting any younger, and thinking back on his life so far, a lot of regrets were making themselves known.

He had been here before, at a crossroads. Feeling as if his life were over, only to have it turned around in the blink of an eye. Could it happen again? Or was it finally, truly, too late?  
 

+++

 

When his thoughts, like they always did, turned to the one person who would never extend an invitation, yet would welcome him with open arms, any time -- he finally gave in to his craving for a drink. He had been doing so well lately, too. Hadn’t touched a drop in nearly three years. Well. If you couldn’t drink during Christmas, then when could you? He needed Sherlock Holmes in his brain as much as he needed a bullet to it, so needs must.

John headed to the liquor cabinet and retrieved the only alcohol left in the house. He swallowed when he saw what it was. A bottle of Drambuie, procured from Scotland while on a case and given to him by Sherlock as a Christmas gift.  The last Christmas that they had spent together, in fact. John closed his eyes as the memories tried to wash over him. He shook his head in denial. Not now. Not tonight.

This drink was generally too sweet for him when drunk straight, but he had nothing to mix it with. He considered just taking the entire bottle with him, but thought better of it. Sighing, he got out a tumbler and poured two-fingers worth into it. He walked into the sitting room and plopped down in his chair. All the lights were off, complete darkness held at bay by the fire blazing in the hearth. It was only seven o’clock, but it felt much later. John took careful sips of his drink as he stared into the flames, willing his mind to empty and his body to relax.

Eventually, his eyes slid shut and his head drooped forward as he fell into the land of dreams.

 

+++

 

The sound of the old grandfather clock striking ten o'clock jerked him awake. He rubbed his eyes, blinking himself awake. Miraculously, he still held his drink in a loose grip as it sat on his armrest. The fire had died down. John shivered. Had the radiator gone off?

“Watson.”

John launched to his feet, instinctively reaching behind his waistband for a gun that, of course, was not there. Adrenaline that he hadn’t felt in *years* coursed through his veins. Heart pumping wildly, he swiveled around, not knowing what to expect.

A shape stood next to his closed front door. It spoke again. “John.”

No. It couldn’t be. John fumbled for the switch on the lamp, flooding the area with light. The figure stood just outside of its reach, but John could make out more detail. Of course, suspecting who it was made it easier to interpret these details. Even if his brain was telling him it was impossible.

The man walked forward slowly, before stopping just within the circle of light. Unmistakable. With the beret atop his head, holding himself in a military stance, and garbed with the same uniform and medals that he had worn at John’s wedding. A sound accompanied his gait that took a few moments for John to register.

John swallowed. “James,” he whispered. “But… you’re dead.” John looked down as the faint _clinking_ died away. His eyes widened at the sight of a chain shackling Sholto’s two legs together at the ankles. As John’s eyes traveled up the length of the major’s body, he also noticed the chains wrapped around Sholto’s wrists.

John snapped to military attention, body rigid with tension. “What’s going on?”

“At ease, John,” Sholto said, giving John a sad smile. “You need to save your energy for later.”

“Why? What’s happening later?”

“Oh, you know. The usual.” Sholto shrugged. “Adventure. A bit of excitement. A trip down memory lane. Maybe, if you’re lucky, a bit of a kick in the trousers as well.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Am I dreaming?” John looked around. “I must be dreaming. This is impossible. You died nearly five years ago.”

James nodded. “Yes. I did.” James held up his hands. “ Aren’t you wondering where these came from?”

John gave a nervous laugh. “Yeah, I’m wondering where _all_ of this is coming from,” he said, waving a hand indicating the immediate vicinity. “Aside from my messed-up brain, that is.”

James swept a critical eye over the same area John had indicated. “They’re chains of _regret_ , John. I’m here to make sure you don’t imprison yourself like I did.”

“Everybody has regrets. It’s part of life.”

“Of course. Everyone wonders about the path not taken. And not everything that happens is a result of our choices; some things we have no control over. Even more incentive to try and limit one’s regrets as much as possible, don’t you agree?”

John shrugged. “I suppose so. A bit late for some things, though.”

James eyes pierced him. “Is it really? For me, yes. I’m already dead. For you? It’s only too late if you continue down this path that you’re on.”

“What path would that be? And in all honesty, what regrets could you possibly have? You were a decorated officer. After your name was cleared you were regarded as a hero. Like you say, some things you couldn’t control. No reason to regret any of that.”

The major’s eyes grew sad. “Do you really not know, John?”

John’s brow furrowed, then his eyes widened. “What? No…”

James closed his eyes for a moment, as if fortifying himself. When he opened them, they were a shade of blue that John had never seen before. 

“Do you know what the worst day of my life was, John? It wasn’t the day I earned these scars. No; it was the day that I attended your wedding, and watched you pledge yourself to somebody else.”

 

+++

 

“What the _hell_ am I supposed to say to that?” 

“Not a thing,” the ghost replied. “Apologies. I got distracted from my main task. I’m here to warn you.”

John rubbed his forehead and muttered, “A little warning before that declaration would have been nice.”

James ignored him. “Beginning at the stroke of midnight, you will be visited by three spirits - “

“Seriously?? Christ, my brain couldn’t come up with anything less fantastical?”

“-- who will be your guides during your journey tonight. Do make the most of your experience, John; you most likely won’t get another chance.”

And with that, Major James Sholto faded away before John’s very eyes, leaving him with both a feeling of dread and one of heightened anticipation.

  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

 

John was settled in bed by eleven. Given that what had just happened couldn’t  _ possibly  _ have happened, John assumed the whisky had gone bad. Or maybe it had been made with a compromised batch of honey. At any rate, John swiftly pushed the evening’s events into a dark corner of his mind to be promptly forgotten. He hoped his nascent headache would be gone by morning and not develop into a raging migraine. 

It felt like he had only been asleep mere minutes when he jerked awake. He sat up in bed, senses on high alert. Something had disturbed his sleep, but what? A chill travelled down his spine, similar to what he had felt earlier. The hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention.

“Who’s there?” he asked, heart knocking. He peered into the darkened room, but he couldn’t make out a thing. The curtains were drawn, not even letting in the moonlight.

Suddenly the lights snapped on. “Johnny!” cried an enthusiastic voice from the doorway. 

John’s head whipped around. “Wha… Harriet?? What are you doing here? Oh my god… did something happen to Rosie?” He threw aside the covers and planted his feet on the floor, ready to launch himself off the bed until he remembered his state of undress. Blinking down at himself, he registered his vest and boxers. His face flamed bright red as his eyes met his sister’s.

Harry leaned against the door, arms crossed and with an amused expression on her face. “Nothing I haven’t seen before, Johnny. Or rather, nothing that  _ Harriet  _ hasn’t seen before. I’m not really her. I just took her form so that you’d feel more comfortable.”

She really  _ did  _ look like Harry, down to the hair and the style of clothes that she wore. She was dressed in a beige cable-knit jumper that reached mid-thigh, and a black mini-skirt that stopped just above her knees. Low-heeled black shoes graced her feet. Her dark blonde hair was pulled back in a messy bun.

“What - oh god. Don’t tell me that you’re one of the ‘spirits’,” John made air-quotes with his fingers, rolling his eyes. “I guess I’m actually still dreaming.”

“Nope. Not dreaming. I - “ Harry made a little bow “ - am the ghost of Christmas Past. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“I hate Christmas,” John muttered. 

“You didn’t used to. It used to be your favourite time of year. Yours and Harry’s.”

“Yes, well…” John shrugged. “When we were kids, sure. What kid doesn’t like Christmas? I’ve had more than a few crappy ones as an adult.”

Harry rolled her eyes. “Oh cry me a river. Who hasn’t? But up with you, now. Time to take a trip down memory lane. Put on your dressing gown, you don’t want to get chilled.”

“What? Surely we’re not going outside - “

“We’re going into the past. More specifically,  _ your  _ past. Now up with you. Into your dressing gown, and don’t forget your slippers.”

Grumbling, John obeyed. It was just a dream, after all. The worst that could happen is that he would wake up. To a lonely Christmas morning. Alone. Circumstances of his own choosing.

 

_ Bloody hell. _

 

When he was ready, he stood in front of the spirit, arms crossed.

‘Harry’ swept a critical eye across his form. “Sorta shabby, innit? How old is that thing anyway?”

John frowned. He looked down at the dark blue tartan pattern. The flannel felt soft and inviting against his skin. Sure, it was a bit frayed around the edges, but - 

“What? It’s comfortable!”

“Did Himself give you that?”

John blushed a furious red. “Maybe. I can’t remember.” 

 

John remembered. Five years ago, Sherlock had given him this dressing gown for his birthday. The first time that Sherlock had given him  _ anything  _ for his birthday. Besides that bloody video message he had recorded with Greg, about a month before he had…

 

_ Oh god. _

 

It would never not hurt, remembering what was to come.

 

“All right, then.” The spirit pivoted so that she and John stood side by side. She held out her arm. John stared at it blankly.

“Loop your arm through mine. Hold on tight and don’t let go. Ready? Might want to close your eyes if you’re susceptible to vertigo.”

“Is it like disapparating?” John teased. “Or using a portkey?”

He received a stern look for his attempt at levity. “Neither. This isn’t make-believe. Now. Ready?”

John sighed. He nodded. Resigned, he squeezed his eyes shut, just in case.

  
  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **tw for this chapter: mention of suicidal ideation**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> For the purposes of going forward, I will generally be referring to the ghost of Christmas Past as Harry, even though it's not _really_ Harry. Because that's who John sees.

 

_ “Fuck!” _

John found himself kneeling in the grass, bent over as his stomach emptied its meager contents. He wiped his mouth with a shaking hand, throwing Harry an accusatory look. 

“Why didn’t you warn me?”

Harry was unruffled, looking bored as she studied her fingernails. “I did mention vertigo.”

“That,” John said as he pushed himself upright on wobbly legs, “was not vertigo. It was an elevator in freefall, bungee-jumping, and sky-diving all rolled into one.”

“So you got a bit dizzy. You’ll be prepared next time.” Harry turned and walked towards a well-lit house, fairy lights strung up along the exterior glowing cheerily. John took better stock of his surroundings as he followed her. Evening was just beginning to fall. The grass crunched beneath his feet as he trod on light frost. Surprisingly, he didn’t feel cold, even though he could see his breath puffing out in front of him.

He recognised the house. It was the one he and Harry had spent their childhood in. The one where his parents had remained until they had died over twenty years ago.

His stomach swooped with delighted anticipation. Every Christmas he had spent in this house had been filled with joy and magic. Wherever the two siblings’ paths had diverged into dysfunction, it hadn’t happened here. John was excited to relive a bit of that magic now.

He and Harry walked up to the window. Harry wiped the condensation away, and she and John peered into the lives of their miniature selves. 

“Hope we won’t get arrested for being peeping-toms,” John said  _ sotto voce. _

“No one here can see or hear us,” Harry replied in a normal voice. “Watch, John. Do you remember ever being so young?”

John watched the young John and Harry as they knelt in front of the tree in their pyjamas, manhandling the presents and lifting them up to their ears to shake them. John looked to be around ten, which would make Harriet twelve. They resembled twins, both of them still tow-headed and of the same height. They giggled, playfully shoving each over and grabbing at each other’s gifts. The tree was lit up with multi-coloured fairy lights, and four stockings hung from the mantelpiece. A family portrait hung over the fireplace, everyone in their Christmas finery acting as guardians over all they surveyed. 

John was overcome with nostalgia, and tears filled his eyes. He knew, logically, that things hadn’t been nearly so perfect. The less than pretty corners of their lives were hidden during the holidays, but that’s what made those times truly precious. They weren’t pretending, not really. The holidays had been an oasis, for everybody, in the midst of a sometimes turbulent existence. A necessary rest stop, before the world intruded once again, like it always did.

“Ready for the next stop?”

John wasn’t anything close to ready. “What? Can’t we stay here for a few more - “

Harry touched his sleeve, and John tensed as that feeling of disorientation descended on him once again.

  
  


+++

  
  


The next few scenes were all happy ones. John had forgotten that there had been so many of them, until life had beaten him down. His first kiss under the mistletoe. Unwrapping his first clarinet. The time he and Harry had been snowed in at their Gran’s house on Christmas Eve and couldn’t make it back home until just before New Year’s. The trip he took during Uni with his girlfriend to her family in California.

The bittersweet one he spent with his mates just before he had shipped out for the first time. That memory, of the convivial atmosphere of the pub that night, had sustained him during his first two Christmases abroad. His family never did understand that choice. He hadn’t needed to join up for financial or educational reasons. The call of adventure, the thrill of facing danger head on… that had been the draw for him.   
  


Then they paused at the memory that probably held the worst pain for him of all. His first Christmas back after being shot. 

That had been the only time in his life when John could remember truly feeling suicidal. 

He blinked, unreality settling over him as he took in the beige walls of the bedsit. He stared at his former self, who was curled into a ball on his narrow bed, facing the wall. His eyes were open, staring at nothing. Not one item reminiscent of the season could be seen anywhere in the room. The despair was like a palpable cloud, even now as an outsider looking in. 

His life had been over, with no prospects on the horizon. No job, physically and emotionally damaged. His purpose ripped away from him. His circumstances seemed bleak, and his future didn’t promise anything better. John remembered his emotion on this particular Christmas Eve.

 

Bone deep despair.

 

He really had not seen a way out. Too proud to ask Harry for help, he also lacked the strength to pull himself together. The only thing that kept him getting up in the morning were his thrice weekly visits to Ella. Nothing else mattered. Because nothing happened to him.

Harry looked on with an unreadable expression on her face as John touched the shoulder of his former self. “Just wait, mate,” he whispered, his mouth curving into a faint smile. “In a little over a month, your whole life will change. Because you’ll be meeting Sherlock Holmes.” He wasn’t aware of it, but his entire countenance lit up from inside. The anticipation of all the adventures to come made him feel as it were all about to happen for the first time. 

“A light at the end of the tunnel, eh, Johnny?” Harry smirked. “Hindsight is 20-20. You never know what might be waiting around the corner.”

“Oh, I do,” John sighed.  “I know exactly what’s waiting for me.”

“Even the very wise cannot see all ends, Johnny. Buck up. Now on to the next Christmas!”

 

+++

 

The next stop couldn’t have been more different. In John’s mind, he had it labelled as the Christmas of Irene Adler. Simultaneously one of the best and worst of his life. 

Here, John was surrounded by friends and good cheer, the likes of which he hadn’t known since before he had enlisted. The spirit had plopped them into the middle of the sitting room, just as Molly had entered with her black dress, gift and perpetual awkwardness. As cringe-worthy as that scene had played out, as an observer standing outside of it all, John remembered the sense of belonging that he had experienced. He had only known these people for a short time, yet he had grown close to each one of them, in different ways. He smiled as he watched Sherlock play the violin and attempt, in his own way, to contribute to the frivolity of the season. Small and intimate as it was, it had been enough. 

Then bloody Irene Adler had to go and spoil it by being dead. And by extension, leading John to the realisation that, despite months of struggling against it, he had fallen in love with his best friend.

When the evening rolled on to the part where Sherlock headed for the morgue and everyone else took their leave, John and his spirit companion were left observing a contemplative past-John who had chosen to abandon his date in order to wait for Sherlock to return. He sat in his chair facing the entrance to their flat, a book open on his lap that he wasn’t really paying attention to. From the look on his face, John knew (remembered) what he had been thinking about. A thrill shot through his body, creating a tingling in his nether regions. He had forgotten what it felt like, the terror and elation of acknowledging one’s hidden desires. The simultaneous feelings of recklessness and caution that it ignited. 

Knowing as he did what was to come in later years, John experienced the recklessness in greater proportions. He yearned to make his presence known, yell at his former self to get his shit together before it was too late.

Then Sherlock walked in the door. His past self looked up and said “Oh hi. You okay?”

Sherlock just stared at him and said, “I hope you didn’t mess up my sock index this time.”

It was so surreal, all of it. Hysterical laughter threatened to burst out of John. He sobered when he noticed the expression on his past self’s face.

Tenderness. Fondness.  _ Love. _

“Tell him,” John said aloud. “Tell him right now, and we can avoid all of the pain that is to come. All of it.”

“Tell him what?”

John startled. He had completely forgotten about the presence of his companion. Embarrassed, he ducked his head, refusing to make eye contact. Knowing she wasn’t really his sister didn’t help matters, given that he was unable to separate the form from the entity. Even though he knew that the spirit  _ already knew,  _ it was too much like coming out to his sister.

“We can’t change the past, Johnny,” she chided him gently. “We haven’t actually travelled back in time. This is just a recording, and we’re just observing.”

“Then what’s the point?” John asked angrily. “Why show me any of this? I already know what happens. I lived through all of it. I think I’m done. You can take me back now.”

“We’re not finished yet,” the spirit said calmly. 

John crossed his arms and jutted out his chin. “I think we are.”

 

Without warning, everything around him disappeared, and he was left standing in the dark. Alone.

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Ariane_DeVere, for use of her ASiB transcript, found here: https://arianedevere.livejournal.com/26397.html


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning: angst and regret, but this *is* based on a Christmas Carol, so it's all in service to the plot. But there is a guaranteed happy ending, I promise.**

 

John blinked. He was no longer in the sitting room at Baker Street, although where he actually was he couldn’t tell. Darkness pressed on him from all sides. Glancing down at himself, he saw that he was still clad in dressing gown and slippers. He looked around but couldn’t make out anything. 

“Hello?” he called. “Harry?” 

Silence. He took a tentative step forward.

Bright light snapped on from overhead, illuminating a perfect circle about fifteen feet in front of him. In that circle sat Ella and himself, facing each other in their respective armchairs. The same rug that John remembered from his therapy days lay between them on the floor. An end table sat  near John’s elbow, a box of tissue paper sitting within reach.

John’s eyes darted around the room. In the darkness he couldn’t tell how large it was, but the space was empty except for the scene in front of him. There was no sign of his spirit guide. The silence was broken by a faint sound that reminded John of rain pattering against a window, even though there was no window in sight, punctuated by a rumbling of thunder.

Dread pooled in the pit of John’s stomach. He knew exactly which session this was, and he had no desire to live through it again. He hadn’t been suicidal, but he had been severely depressed, and on the first Christmas Eve after Sherlock’s fall, he had contacted Ella for an emergency session.

Ella leaned forward. John braced himself.

 

“John. What happened?”

“You read the papers.”

“Sometimes.”

“You know why I’m here. I’m here because…”

“You need to get it out.”

“My best friend -- Sherlock Holmes -- is dead.”

  
  


“Stop!”

The two figures in the scene froze in place. John’s past self was hunched forward, both hands covering his face. He was frozen in mid-sob. Ella was still leaning forward, expression intent and solemn, pencil poised above her notebook in preparation. 

“I can’t,” John stated into the darkness. “I can’t relive this whole session again. Could we fast forward please?”

It never ceased to amaze John, that whenever he thought back to those days between Sherlock’s fall and his return, his gut twisted and his anxiety level shot through the roof and his ever present anger started simmering again.

When had anger become his default setting? And who exactly was his anger directed toward?

The sound of voices jerked him out of his thoughts. 

 

“The things that you wanted to say, but never said  -- Say them now.” At the time John hadn’t taken note of Ella’s expression, but now he did. One eyebrow was raised, and a look that could only be described as  _ knowing  _ was on her face.

Of course, what other conclusion could she have come to?  No one grieved like this for someone who was less than the love of their life.

John stared at his former self, knowing exactly how he was going to respond. As far as he had known at the time, it was too late. He had waited too long. Saying those words wouldn’t do anybody any good.

“I’m sorry; I can’t.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Once again, John blinked and the scene changed. This time, he was in the kitchen of the flat that he and Mary had been sharing at the time of Sherlock’s return from the dead. 

John startled as Harry appeared at his elbow. “Appreciate the change in method of transport,” he deadpanned. “Much less vomiting this way.”

Harry swatted his arm and grinned at him. John sniffed the air. There was something simmering on the hob that smelled heavenly. A sprig of mistletoe hung above the entryway leading into the sitting room. John’s smiling past self was vibrating with barely-suppressed joy as he topped off Mary’s wine glass with a blood-red liquid. John grimaced. Sangria. He never could stand the stuff, but it had been one of Mary’s favourites.

Past John captured Mary’s lips in a lingering kiss, and she responded enthusiastically. He lifted her off her feet, making her giggle with delight. 

Sherlock stuck his head into the kitchen and rumbled, “Hurry up, you two! Mrs Hudson wants to take pictures.” Two cloth antlers attached to a band of red wobbled on top of his tousled curls. John blinked. Had his past self taken time to notice the state of his former flatmate’s curls? He couldn’t recall.

“All right, Sherlock, we’ll be right there.” Mary grabbed her drink and winked at John. “Come on, love, no dawdling.”

“I’m right behind you,” past John promised, eyes twinkling. As soon as his fiancee had stepped out of the room, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He rubbed his forehead with a shaking left hand. 

John regarded his past self with crossed arms and a somber expression. He vividly remembered the conflicting emotions warring within him at the time. Great joy at Sherlock’s return mixed with lingering anger at his lies and deception, with a whole lot of anxiety regarding his unspoken feelings stirred in. 

After Mary’s death especially, John had found himself coming back to this moment in his mind, time after time. Wondering two different things. One -- why had he allowed himself to so easily be pulled back into Sherlock’s orbit, almost as if the previous two years had never happened? Knowing that doing so would put them at risk of once again attracting the sort of circumstances that had led to Sherlock’s fall. And two -- why the hell hadn’t he grabbed this second chance by the horns and taken the opportunity to say all of those things that Ella had wanted him to say back when he thought Sherlock was dead?

The only conclusion that John had ever come up with for the second question, was simply that Sherlock had waited too long to come back. John had met Mary, had truly loved her, and couldn’t justify throwing that all away for the slim chance that Sherlock loved him in return. 

Suspecting what he did now, though, about how Sherlock felt  -- or what Sherlock  _ claimed  _ to feel -- if John had known that at the time, he surely would have called the whole thing off with Mary. And if he had done  _ that  _ \-- well, there would have been no Rosie now, would there?

He shook himself out of his reverie as raised voices could be heard from the other room. 

“John! Come on, we need to take pics!”

“Oh Sherlock, I’m so glad you’re wearing the antlers this year.”

“Yes, Mrs Hudson, just -- no, stand here, in front of me.”

“John!”

Past John raised his chin, grabbed his drink, and thus fortified marched into the sitting room.  

John started to follow, but Harry grasped his elbow. “Sorry, John. We have one more destination before I take you home.”

John swallowed. “Are you sure? Could we just -- “

But before he could finish his thought, they were on their way.  

  
  


* * *

  
  


John found himself once again at 221b Baker Street. At a glance he took in the muted lighting, the Christmas tree in the corner with blinking fairy lights, open boxes and wrapping paper strewn around the room. His eyes eventually came to rest on the two armchairs by the lit fireplace, each containing a figure sprawled out in a fashion reminiscent of John’s stag night. 

_ Oh no.  _ Panic twisted John’s gut.

He turned to Harry, who had been good enough to not abandon him. “Please, take me someplace else. Anywhere else.”

“But there’s nowhere you’d rather be, is there?”

John swallowed. He looked around, fists clenching at his sides. No, Harry was right. This was where his heart and soul yearned to be. He missed it like a phantom limb. This was his home. Ever since Baker Street had been rebuilt after the blast, he had yearned to make it his home again, with Rosie and Sherlock. But he had never screwed up the courage to ask.

Of course Harry would bring him to the time when he had that dream within his grasp, but had been too much of a coward to accept it. John feared it had been his last chance. And nobody could change the past.

“You need to face this, John. In order to move forward.”

John let out a laugh tinged with hysteria. “Move forward? It’s too late for that.”

Harry frowned. “It may be too late for many things, but not for all things.”

“It’s too late for anything important.”

“Watch.”

“I know what happens. I was… I’m there!”

“Maybe experiencing it sober will give you a different perspective.”

John glared at her. “You’re one to talk.”

“I’m not your sister, remember? Now  _ watch.” _

 

John watched. 

 

Sherlock and his past self were winding down after a very busy Christmas Eve day. As per tradition, Mrs Hudson had hosted the party in her own flat. The festivities always started out there, but as the years went by and the guest list grew, people would often trickle up into the second floor flat as well. Sometimes Sherlock would be present, other times not. This time he was.

All of the guests had gone home, except for John and Rosie. Rosie was upstairs sleeping, and Sherlock and John had enough drinks in them to be pleasantly sloshed. 

“Thank you for the corn-cob pipe, John,” Sherlock said, speech slurring. “I’m not sure if it’s meant to be a joke, but it’s quite well made.”

Past John grinned. His legs stretched out to tangle with Sherlock’s, who didn’t seem to mind. The expression on both their faces were identical, and it was one of smoldering desire. John could only stare. Is that how they had interacted during his stag night? 

“Partly a joke, but also hope to wean you off those cigarettes,” his former self said.

“Ah. Oh! Your present.” Sherlock stumbled to his feet and carefully made his way to the tree. He retrieved a package from under it, and staggered his way to the sofa. 

“Umph! Took the wrong way ‘round. C’mere John, open it.”

John pushed his way off his chair, stepped over the coffee table, and fell into the space next to Sherlock. He ripped the paper off as Sherlock made a face at him. “I was saving the wrapping paper,” he complained. 

John shrugged. He smiled as he lifted the bottle of whisky out of the box.

“Drambuie. Hey, how’d you know it’s a favourite, and that I haven’t had it for ages.”

Sherlock grinned at him. “Got it on a case when I was in Scotland last month. Thought of you. Deduced it, of course. Did you know that it’s made with heather honey?”

“Surprisingly, I did know that. Tell you what, we’ll save it for New Year’s, yeah?”

Observer John flinched, knowing that never happened.

“Of course.”

“Thank you, Sherlock. It’s… you’re very generous.”

Past John and Sherlock locked eyes, and at that moment John both saw and felt the tension ratchet up tenfold. He shivered. He wanted to look away, feeling like an intruder in his own life, but he couldn’t. 

“John,” Sherlock said, voice soft and low. “Move back in. Please. There’s room for both you and Rosie. The flat has been repaired for years now, there’s no reason not to. I know you want to. It would be a Christmas gift to us both. Well, that would probably be too soon. A nice start to the New Year, then.”

John’s stomach swooped. He experienced the same emotions that he knew his past self was going through. Sherlock was offering John his heart’s desire, without him having to push past his fear to ask for it. Everything within him had yearned to say yes. But he was witnessing his own hesitation. 

“Sherlock. I…”

Looking back on that night, John hadn’t been able to remember who had initiated it. He had convinced himself that  _ he  _ had, and that Sherlock had just gone along for the ride. But no. 

Sherlock lifted his hand and brushed past-John’s fringe off his forehead. His hand lingered, fingers stroking John’s temple. “It would mean the world to me.” And then his head tipped forward, and his lips brushed John’s.

Observer John put his hand on his mouth, imagining he could feel the phantom caress against his own lips. As he watched, he noticed his past-self’s eyes close, and although clearly hesitant, he reached out to cup Sherlock’s head and moved his lips against Sherlock’s. Sherlock didn’t need any more encouragement; he hardened the kiss as he leaned in further, until he was lying on top of past-John. 

Past-John groaned, hips thrusting upward for more friction. Observer John groaned along with him, caught up in the moment.

When Sherlock tried to slip his hand down the back of John’s trousers, John stiffened. He placed a hand on Sherlock’s chest. “Wait. I… since when have you wanted this?”

Past John’s tone clearly sounded accusatory, something he hadn’t been conscious of at the time. Confusion rippled across Sherlock’s face. 

“John?”

John pushed him off. He struggled into an upright position. “I mean, there’s never been a  _ hint  _ of interest before. Why now?”

“I… always, John. I mean, you’ve always been different. Special. There wasn’t any one moment, it was a gradual progression…”

“Nope. Not...not good enough, Sherlock. I... I think maybe you’re a bit drunk, and also maybe trying to manipulate me. Always manipulating. Using my weaknesses against me, pulling me in. Like you did when you came back. I couldn’t stay away. Can never stay away. Dragged Mary into it right along with me. ‘S why she died. Then I… then I almost killed you, beating you when I should have… should have  _ healed  _ you. My fault… all my fault. Too late…”

The look on Sherlock’s face was one of utter devastation. How had he  _ missed  _ that before? His words had cut Sherlock to the quick.  

“John! No, please… don’t go…”

Sherlock sprang to his feet as John pushed himself off the sofa. John swayed and grabbed Sherlock’s arm, trying to regain his balance. “I need… I need to leave now. Can’t stay here.” He picked up his Christmas present and weaved his way to the front door. “I’ll get.. My jacket’s downstairs, I’ll just…”

“John, you can’t leave in your state. Let me -- “

“‘S okay, Sherlock. I’ll call a cab.”

“On Christmas Eve?”

“An Uber then. Something. Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”

 

And with that, Past John Watson was out the door.

  
  


Sherlock stood there, looking at the closed door, a helpless expression on his face. His hands twitched at his sides. 

“But I love you,” he said to the empty room, voice cracking.

John stood there, five feet away, unable to console or to touch. He trembled with emotion. This was the authentic Sherlock, alone with no audience. No charade. No manipulation. Just a man apparently struggling with the same fears that John was. 

Sherlock shook himself out of his lethargy, and took his phone out of his pocket. He texted something, received a notification, then tossed it on the sofa. He walked to the window and lifted the curtains, presumably watching Past John as he made his way down the street.

“Daddy?” wobbled a small voice from upstairs.

John sucked in a breath. On top of all the not-good things his past self had just said and done, he had forgotten his daughter and left her behind. With all of the drama playing out in front of him, she had slipped John’s mind as well.

Sherlock wiped his eyes before turning around. Even with the low lighting, John could see the sheen on them. 

Sherlock called out, “I’m on my way up, love. Just hold tight. Looks like you’ll be spending the night, won’t that be fun?” He grabbed a book from the shelf, presumably one that would entertain a six-year old, and bounded up the stairs.

John walked over to the couch and picked up Sherlock’s phone. The last two text messages stared up at him.

 

_ Make sure John gets home safely. -SH _

 

_ I’m sending a car now. -MH _

  
  


John looked up at the ceiling, barely able to hold back the tears. He listened to the creaking floor boards, the squeak of the mattress, then Sherlock’s low rumble as he attended to John’s daughter. 

He had the definitive answer now, didn’t he? How he and Rosie fit into Sherlock’s life. And John had walked out on him, rejected his gift, and had for all intents and purposes ghosted him for the next three years. 

Before he could express his inner chaos in a destructive physical action, Harry touched his arm. 

“My time with you is almost done, John. I’m taking you home now.”

“Thank Christ. I don’t think my heart can take any more.”

“Oh you’re not done. You have two more visitors before the night is through.”

John snapped his eyes to hers. “What? It feels like I’ve lived through an entire night already.”

“Not quite. Ready?”

John closed his eyes. “No. But let’s get it over with, yes?”

  
  


The next thing John knew, he was back in his bedroom, tucked under the covers as if he had never left. If it weren’t for the fact that he was wearing his dressing gown and slippers, he would have thought it all a dream 

 

  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully there will be another chapter posted before the day is through, but I wanted to get this part out there just in case, you know, something happens. Enjoy.

 

John had been ‘back’ for all of two minutes when there was a pounding on his bedroom door.

“Wakey wakey!” called a very familiar voice. Without waiting for permission, the door flew open, hitting the wall and making a racket that made John flinch. The lights once again snapped on, seemingly of their own accord.

John threw back the covers and sprang from the bed to face the intruder.

Gregory Lestrade stood in front of him, dressed in a frankly horrendous Christmas jumper and form-fitting blue jeans. A red Santa hat perched on his head. Greg had his arms crossed, and his stance screamed ‘I am a police officer and you will do as I say’. A cocky grin graced his face, which didn’t diminish his attractiveness in the slightest. If John hadn’t been hopelessly in love with Sherlock…

John crossed his arms in a mirroring gesture. “I suppose you’re not really Greg Lestrade either. Of course you aren’t, otherwise you’d be tucked in your own bed with Molly.”

‘Greg’ inclined his head. “Right you are, John. I am the ghost of Christmas Present. Pleased to meet ya.”

“Sorry I can’t say the same,” John grumbled. He relaxed his stance, and scrubbed a hand across his face. “What time is it?”

“Two a.m.”

“I’m not getting any sleep tonight, am I?”

“Can’t speak to that.” The spirit uncrossed his arms, revealing the front of his jumper. John almost laughed at the sight of a reindeer displayed on a background of red and green. “But the sooner we get started, the sooner we’re done, yeah? Ready?”

“Not really,” John said sarcastically, hardly caring that it wasn’t actually Greg he was speaking to but needing to release some of his pent-up tension. “Where are we going?”

“Taking a peek at this year’s Christmas celebrations. Show ya what you’ll be missin’.”

John sighed. “And that’s not all, is it? I warrant a lesson or two is in the offing as well.”

“If that’s what you perceive. Come.” The spirit stretched out his arm. Familiar with the drill by now, John grasped its wrist, and off they went.

  


+++

  


They landed smack dab in the middle of Harry and Clara’s Christmas morning celebration. The two women sat cross-legged on the sitting room floor, grinning as they watched Rosie tear open her gifts. His daughter was already dressed in a red crushed velvet dress with a matching bow that tied her auburn hair back into a pony-tail. She loved dressing up, always had. John swallowed past the lump in his throat. How could he have handed over this privilege to his sister and her wife? What kind of father was he?

Clara gazed at her niece with soft brown eyes. The white terry-cloth dressing gown she was wrapped in contrasted nicely against her dark skin. Her disheveled curls framed her still youthful face, and John was struck once again with how effortlessly arresting her presence was. He used to have a huge crush on her when Harry had first introduced her, years ago.

“Oooh! Thank you, Auntie Harry and Auntie Clara!” Rosie brandished a box set of the latest Doctor Who season. “I can hardly wait to watch them with Dad!”

John’s heart twisted. Harry and Clara exchanged a quick glance that spoke volumes, at least to him. _He should be here sharing this with her now._

John looked at the spirit beside him. ‘Greg’s’ expression was fond as he took in the scene. His brown eyes sparkled with mirth.

“Lovely family you’ve got here, John. Too bad you decided to spend the day alone, feeling sorry for yourself.”

John turned on him in anger. “Look, you don’t know what it’s like…”

“To what? To be surrounded by people who love you and want to be around you? You’re right, I don’t. I’m just a spirit. I get the idea, though, just by observing.”

John’s reply was cut short when his attention was caught by Rosie retrieving another package from under the tree. She looked down on it with an unreadable expression.

“‘To Daddy, From Rosie’,” she read. She looked up. “I suppose I can give this to him tomorrow. Won’t be the same, though.”

“Oh love, come here.” Harry spread out her arms. Rosie dropped the gift and raced into her aunt’s embrace. Harry rocked her, pressing kisses into her hair as Rosie sniffled against her shoulder. After a few moments, Rosie pulled back, still nestled in Harry’s arms.

“Why doesn’t Daddy want to spend Christmas with me? Is he mad at me? Did I do something wrong?”

John’s heart clenched. This had not been his intent, at all. Rosie deserved only happy memories of Christmas, not to feel rejected by the one person who was supposed to love her above all others.

“Way to go, Watson,” the spirit said out of the corner of his mouth.

“Shut up,” John hissed.

Harry exchanged another look with her wife, one that encapsulated both sadness and anger.

“Your daddy’s just feeling a bit under the weather right now, sweetheart. It has nothing to do with you. I’m sure he’ll be so excited to see you tomorrow.”

Rosie pushed out of her aunt’s lap and plopped next to her on the floor. She played with the carpet fibers, keeping her eyes downcast. “No, he’s been like this for _ages_ ,” she opined as only a pre-teen could. “He won’t even go with me to visit Sherlock anymore, he either drops me off or has someone else take me. We used to have so much fun together, the three of us. And Sherlock seems sad all the time now. I want things to go back to how they used to be.”

The doorbell rang. “Oh goodness,” Harry exclaimed, “people are here already. I lost track of time.” She and Clara both scrambled to their feet. “Rosie, you’re the only one who’s properly dressed, why don’t you get the door. We’ll be back in a tic.”

Rosie squealed as she jumped up, all traces of angst wiped from her face. “Rory and Amy are here!” she proclaimed, referring to the children of Clara’s sister, both close in age to Rosie. She ran to the front door as her two aunts fled to their bedroom.

Soon the house was filled with laughter and conviviality. The smells from the preparation of a sure-to-be scrumptious dinner permeated the air, drinks were poured, music played in the background. John watched it all with a dazed expression. He recognised everybody. He had spent at least one Christmas with each of them. His name was brought up a few times, asking where he was, my god I haven’t seen him in it feels like forever, is he still unattached, it can’t be healthy for him to raise Rosie on his own, it isn’t fair to her, and on and on.

By the time everyone got around to sitting down for Christmas dinner, John was exhausted. He looked to the spirit with a pleading expression.

‘Greg’ threw back his head and laughed. It was uncanny how his mannerisms and speech pattern matched the real Greg so perfectly.

“Yep, I know. Christmas with family is exhausting at the best of times. Ready to move on?”

“Where else is there to go?”

‘Greg’ gave him a look. “Very funny, John. Your home away from home. Or rather, your home full stop.”

John’s shoulders sagged. “It isn’t, though. I lost my chance. I turned him down when he offered it to me, and he hasn’t invited me back since. I’m not about to beg him to take me back.”

The spirit cocked an attractive silver eyebrow. “Can you blame ‘im, mate? The way you two left things, I’m sure he wouldn’t want to risk continued rejection. He does actually have a heart, you know.”

“Oh, I know. I found that out during your predecessor’s visit.”

“Well, let’s see how he and his landlady are celebrating this year. Shall we?”

John sighed. He touched the spirit’s wrist, and off they went.

  
  
  
  
  



	6. Chapter 6

 

 

Back to Baker Street. Again. John didn’t know how much more his heart could take.  At least they had landed in Mrs Hudson’s flat this time. The baking going on right now smelled  _ incredible _ . John’s stomach rumbled. 

“Her famous Christmas scones,” John informed his spirit guide. “They are a miracle sent from heaven. God, I miss them.”

The spirit shrugged. “Well, you know what the solution to that is.”

“Yeah. I just -- “

He stopped as he recognised a familiar rumble coming from the kitchen, followed by a feminine admonition. Bracing himself, John followed the sound of the voices. 

His heart melted when he came in sight of the two speakers. Sherlock and Mrs Hudson were seated at her kitchen table, facing each other. Mrs Hudson clasped both of Sherlock’s hands in her own, her knuckles white with the tight grip. Sherlock was looking down at the table, avoiding eye contact.

“John’s bringing her round on New Year’s Eve, dear, and she’ll be staying the weekend. You’ll see her then. I know it’s not the same…”

Sherlock raised his red-rimmed eyes to look at his landlady. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “I love that little girl as if she were my own. It’s been…  _ hell,  _ Mrs Hudson, not seeing either of them these past few Christmases.”

“I know, Sherlock. It’s not been the same at all. But remember you have lots of people who love you. Rosie loves you, even though she can’t be here today. I’m sure even John --”

“Don’t.” 

Mrs Hudson squeezed his hands. “He’ll come round, Sherlock. He always does.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Not this time, I’m afraid.” 

A familiar sound chimed through the flat. “Ah, they’re here. Let me get that, dear. Help yourself to some scones, I’m sure they’re cool enough by now.” Mrs Hudson gave his hands a final pat before she pushed her chair back and prepared to greet her guests.

John stared at Sherlock’s profile. Free to look to his heart’s content without being caught out, he tried to apply what Sherlock had taught him about observing and deducing. In general, his friend looked good. He was dressed impeccably, as always, in a blood-red shirt and black trousers. His hair was artfully styled, still black as ebony with not a hint of grey. His posture, usually so ramrod straight, was somewhat slumped, reflecting the dejection John had heard in his voice. 

 

Conclusion? Sherlock was keeping up appearances, but he was struggling. 

 

“Is it true, then?” the spirit asked, startling John.

“Is what true?”

“The rumours about the two of you.” The spirit’s face didn’t betray anything; there was no judgement or reproval there. Just curiosity, and perhaps… sympathy?

John blew out a breath. “No. Well. No.”

‘Greg’s’ eyes darted over John’s face, looking for clues.  His forehead furrowed, and he opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, chatter floated down the hallway as Mrs Hudson led her guests into the flat. 

Sherlock straightened in his chair, as he effortlessly re-cloaked himself in the cool and aloof personae he was so well known for. He stood up stiffly, running his hands down the front of his shirt to smooth out any imaginary wrinkles. 

“Thanks for switching it to today to accommodate us, Mrs Hudson. Usually I have enough seniority to get out of working Christmas Eve, but we were short handed. Least I’m off now until after the New Year.”

“Not a problem, Greg. Here, let me take your coats.”

Molly and Greg shed their coats, revealing matching royal blue jumpers and khakis. John stifled a giggle. On any other couple, it would have been cheesy and cringe-worthy, but they were so adorable together that they could get away with it.

John’s spirit companion stared at his doppelganger, then broke into a wide grin. “Well, look at me why dontcha! I’m a handsome devil, if I do say so myself. Aging well, yeah? And is that the wife?  _ Lucky  _ devil as well.”

John rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, the real Greg is a lot more modest than *you* are. And yes, Molly is lovely, and not to be ogled at like a piece of meat.”

To John’s surprise, the spirit flushed. He stammered, “I… I’m sorry, I meant no offense. I’ve been told I need to pay more attention to the time periods I’m being sent to, to do more research beforehand so that I don’t commit the very faux pas I just did, apparently.”

John stared. He didn’t know quite what to make of that revelation, that didn’t really explain anything at all but certainly piqued his curiosity.

The spirit waved his hand, shaking his head. “Never mind, not important right now.”

“Oi, Sherlock, there you are!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, well spotted, Greg. Have you ever considered becoming a detective?” 

Molly giggled. Greg laughed. “Shut it, you. I just wasn’t sure you’d be here. You missed the last two Baker Street Christmases.”

John whipped his head around to stare at Sherlock. The detective shrugged. “Family obligations. Spent them with my parents and Mycroft.” John couldn’t get a read on Sherlock’s expression (the man was such a damn expert at masking all of his emotions), but he was pretty sure that there had been more to it than that. He wondered what the story was, but he was no longer in a position to know these things. For better or worse,  John had taken himself out of the equation.

“Ah,” Greg replied. “Yeah, I suppose one has to suck it up every so often for that kind of thing.” 

“Yes. Mrs Hudson, I’m going upstairs to retrieve my violin. I’m sure at some point today someone is going to request that I play some inane Christmas music, so best be prepared.” 

“Yes, dear,” Mrs Hudson called after him as he bounded out of the flat. She turned to face her guests and shrugged. “That’s Sherlock for you. So. It’s just us this time. I kept it small this year, it’s just I’ve been having so much trouble with my hip and other issues lately, you understand.”

John’s guilt ratcheted up tenfold at that statement. It was true, Mrs Hudson was certainly not getting any younger. She was already elderly when John first met her, which seemed like a lifetime ago. She wouldn’t be around forever, and John had already missed too many chances to spend time with her. First when he avoided Baker Street after Sherlock’s ‘suicide’, and now these past few years as well. Oh, he did visit her every so often, but not nearly often enough, and when he did he usually kept it brief for fear of running into Sherlock.  He knew if he didn’t take steps to change that, he would regret it.

Well, what was one more regret piled on top of all the rest, John thought bitterly.

Molly touched her hostess’s arm and smiled. “Of course, Mrs Hudson. It’s lovely that you’re able to have us this year again, thank you so much. It’s just that Greg and I.. you know… both of our parents have been gone for awhile now, and we don’t have kids of our own, so it’s… nice to have people to get together with during the holidays. So thank you for keeping up the tradition year after year.”

“Oh go on dear! It’s my pleasure, I love to do it. I just wish…” her voice trailed off and her face grew sad. 

Greg gave her a sympathetic look. “So...John?” he asked.

Mrs Hudson shook her head. “No. Turned me down again. Although he promised to come around on New Year’s, bring Rosie with him.”

Molly shook her head.  “I thought those two would have it all sorted by now. I bet it’s John holding them back. I mean, I love him, but honestly, sometimes I wonder if he walks through life totally oblivious.”

Greg and Mrs Hudson stared at her with questioning looks on their faces.

Molly blushed. “Oh!” A hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, dear. I thought it was obvious to everybody.”

“What’s obvious?” Greg asked.

“That… that they’re in love with each other!”

Mrs Hudson grinned. “Oh I knew that from Day One!”

“Maybe so, but *they* didn’t!” Molly retorted.

Greg laughed. “Are you serious? That was always the rumour… again, almost from Day One. There was even a pool at the Yard for awhile, at least until -- well.”

John couldn’t believe it. Was this really how his friends acted behind his back… discussing him and Sherlock as if their lives were a reality show? Betting on them? *Judging* them?

The spirit laid a hand on John’s shoulder. “Steady on, lad. You’re here for a reason, remember? You’re meant to learn something from all this.”

“What I’m learning is that my so-called friends are gossiping, conniving, judgemental arseholes…”

“Ah ah ah,” the spirit interrupted, wagging his finger in an annoying fashion. “Tis the season to be charitable. Towards others *and* ourselves.”

John’s retort was cut off by the return of Sherlock and his violin. Even though John was not physically present, he swore that all of the air was sucked out of the room as soon as the detective swept in. His presence always had that effect --  _ had  _ always had that effect -- wherever the two of them went. John had continually found himself dragged along behind the comet that was Sherlock Holmes, as helpless to separate himself as the dust and debris that trailed behind such a phenomenon. His instinctive reaction was to feel resentment. But maybe he had been looking at it wrong all these years. Maybe their entanglement wasn’t meant to be a bad thing? After all, it seemed that they were both much happier together than they were apart.

Then someone followed Sherlock into the flat, and John’s heart plummeted into his stomach.

A tall brunet, almost as tall as Sherlock, sauntered in as if he belonged there. Keen blue eyes darted from person to person, reminiscent of one consulting detective. The man looked like a model with his wavy hair, dressed in a black peacoat and black trousers, with a forest green scarf wrapped around his neck. He tugged his leather gloves off and shoved them in his pockets as he beamed at everyone with the whitest smile John had ever seen.

Sherlock was looking at him with an ambivalent expression. His eyes were still sad, but there was a spark behind them now that spoke to tentative hope. He cleared his throat. “Everyone, this is Neil. He’s recently relocated from America, and had nowhere to spend Christmas. So I invited him round.” He glanced at Mrs Hudson, uncharacteristically hesitant. “Is.. is that all right, Mrs Hudson?”

Mrs Hudson was looking at the newcomer with stars in her eyes. “Of course it is, dear. The more the merrier.” She stepped forward and grasped the man’s hands. “Welcome, Neil. Do let me take your coat.”

The (frankly gorgeous) man inclined his head and gave her a warm (charming) smile. “Thank you so much, ma’am. But Sherlock isn’t being completely forthcoming.” He looked at Sherlock with both fondness and exasperation. “I’m his date.”  

  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeeeeeeee don't kill me I promise a Johnlock happy ending!
> 
>  
> 
> The person I have in mind when writing Neil is the actor Matt Bomer, who played Neil Caffrey in the tv show White Collar. Look him up, he's frankly gorgeous. And gay.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! This one is longer than usual, so I hope it's a treat.
> 
>  
> 
> **Warnings: Reference to alcoholism and alcohol-related death, mention of character deaths (although only for one possible future ;)).**

 

The next thing John knew, he was back in his own house, leaning over with his hands on his knees and hyperventilating. A firm hand was pressed on his upper back, anchoring him to the here and now. The present. John’s present.

The spirit guided him to his chair. John plopped down, and covered his face with shaking hands. After several minutes, he had calmed down enough for speech.

His hands fell to his lap. ‘Greg’ was stretched out on the sofa across from him, hands laced behind his head. As if he hadn’t a care in the world, and John’s world hadn’t just crashed down a little lower.

“For a split second there, I almost had some hope,” John said hoarsely. “Almost believed that it wasn’t too late to turn things around. But now… he’s obviously moved on. Even seeing someone. Which…” John laughed, high pitched and hysterical. “Is what he should be doing. I had my chance, three years ago. I just refused to see it at the time. Now…” he shrugged. “I hate to keep repeating myself, but it’s too late for us.”

The spirit gazed at him thoughtfully as he chewed his lower lip. After a moment he said gently, “Is it?”

“Of *course* it is! Didn’t you see the same thing I did, just now? He’s dating Mister Model. Someone who’s obviously in the same league as him, and who… looks at him like I used to. Like the way he deserves to be looked at. He’s found Mister Perfect,” John mumbled.

‘Greg’ threw his hands up, making the bobble on his hat swing from side to side. “You saw the man for all of two minutes, if that! How do you know he’s perfect, or how he feels about Sherlock? You haven’t seen the full picture. And if you don’t show up tomorrow… or today, rather… you never will. Lack of action will only ensure that things play out a certain way.”

“How would my presence there change anything?” John scoffed. “Neil will still show up, and he’ll still be Sherlock’s date.” John spat the last word as if it were a curse.

“Then maybe you should show up before that.”

“What?”

‘Greg’ sighed. He pushed himself into an upright position. “I’ve run out of time. I have to leave. But don’t forget you’ve got one more visitor.”

John rolled his eyes. “What more can possibly be said? Or shown? I’ve learned my lesson, believe me, but far too late.”

The spirit shrugged. “That’s for you to decide, of course. All my fellow spirits can do is present the choices. Either continue on the path you’re on… or make changes. It’s as simple -- and as complicated -- as that.”

“Right. Okay. Off you go, then. Thanks for the memories, and all that.”

The spirit inclined his head. John looked down at the floor for a split second, and when he looked back up, ‘Greg’ was gone.

 

+++

 

John continued sitting in his chair, eyes closed, resigned to waiting for his next visitor. If he could get a few winks in beforehand, all the better. He waited, and he waited, and he waited. Sleep continued to elude him. When the clock struck three, he opened his eyes.

Mycroft stood in the middle of the room, legs crossed at the ankle while he leaned on his umbrella. Dressed impeccably as always in a three-piece suit and red tie, his presence set John’s teeth on edge. The fact that he was silent as a ghost made the situation even more unnerving.

John sprang up from his chair. “Well?” He threw his arms up in the air. “What more could there possibly be to show me? I see where I went wrong, a hundred times over. If it’s proven anything, it’s that I only ever make things worse. I’m not cut out to be a friend. I’m not cut out to be a father. I’m _certainly_ not cut out to be a lover. So. Do your worst, spirit. That is, I assume you’re not the *real* Mycroft Holmes, since he would have _said something_ by this point.”

The spirit’s gaze bore into John. His expression remained blank, but John swore that he could hear the Holmesian gears grinding. Suddenly John felt weary. More weary than he had ever felt before.

“Look, let’s just get this over with, yeah? So I can get on with sleeping, moping, and possibly drinking the day away. That’s what everyone is expecting of me, right? John Watson stops even pretending to give a damn, even handing his young daughter off to his recovering alcoholic sister and her family. Who would have thought? Harry Watson has a happier homelife than her brother.”

Mycroft inclined his head. He pointed his umbrella straight at John’s chest, then stood there still as a statue, waiting.

John instinctively knew what he wanted. “Fine,” he said as he grasped the end of the umbrella and pulled it towards him until it rested against his heart. Mycroft snapped his fingers, and the sitting room melted away.

 

* * *

 

The night was still yet bright, with a full moon breaking through the intermittent cloud cover. Snow covered everything, at least six inches deep on the ground, and more was steadily falling. Everything was calm, peaceful, and wrapped in foreboding expectation. John had been brought here for a reason, and he sensed that it wasn’t for anything uplifting.

About fifty feet away stood a quaint cottage. In the garden stood five winterized beehives, set up in their protective wooden containers, as white as the surrounding snow. John recognised them because Sherlock had shown him pictures from a magazine a few years ago, and lectured John for two hours on the fascinating (boring) subject of beekeeping.

Again, John experienced nothing of the cold, even though his only barrier was his dressing gown and slippers.

He turned to the spirit, and almost fell on his arse. ‘Mycroft’ was now dressed in a black judge’s robe, with a black hood hiding most of his features. John could still recognise him, from the hawk-like nose that couldn’t be contained within the hood, to his glittering eyes that spoke of unquestionable intelligence.

John wheezed out a laugh. “Of course. You do love to be dramatic; always have. Worse than your brother at times.”

The only response was a pale, bony finger pointing towards the cottage.

John’s head buzzed as it finally clicked. “I’ve been brought to Christmases past and present. Therefore, I deduce that you have brought me to the future. Am I right?” John remembered the bees. “Is this where Sherlock lives now, whenever *now* is?”

The spirit continued to silently point.

“Yes, I get that we’re supposed to go there. Are we supposed to knock? Or can we walk through walls?”

If a finger could express emotion, this one most certainly did. It trembled with what John could only assume was irritation at his obtuseness.

“I know you’ve always thought I’m an idiot, but I could really use some guidance here.”

Immediately John found himself inside. The room was obviously the bedroom, large bed taking up most of the space. A rolltop desk with a futuristic looking monitor stood in the corner, an open notebook lying to the side with a fountain pen resting on a page with Sherlock’s signature scrawl. John snuck a peek, and thought he could make out something about honey bee ‘dancing’ patterns and notes on various types of honey. He recognised the periodic table above the bed, although it had yellowed a bit with age.

A familiar sound came from somewhere outside the room, and John was hit with a tsunami of nostalgia. He was instantly transported back to his first Christmas at Baker Street, when Sherlock played the song he was hearing right now. “We wish you a merry Christmas, and a happy new year….”

John was filled with a yearning to see that whip-thin figure swaying to the music as he made love to the violin. He could imagine Sherlock standing in front of the window, black sky and falling snow serving as a backdrop. John strode to the bedroom door and yanked it open.

Sherlock *was* playing the violin, in front of a large picture window that showcased the falling snow, but everything else was… unexpected. A smallish (five-foot) Christmas tree stood in the corner, lit up with lights and laden with ornaments, most of them handmade from what John could tell. A fireplace crackled with flames licking the wood and throwing off heat. The furniture looked as if it had been transported straight from 221b -- the couch looked the same, as did the two armchairs facing each other on opposite sides of the fireplace: John’s old age-scuffed chair, and Sherlock’s modern leather chair. John was almost certain they were the same pieces, and not scarily accurate replicas. It made his heart twinge.

The room wasn’t all that large objectively, but the little crowd inhabiting it somehow made it seem -- _more._ Seated at various places around the room were faces both familiar and strange. John immediately recognised Molly, even though she must have aged twenty years since he had last seen her. She looked like herself, with the same hair style but now shot through with streaks of grey that suited her. She sat in John’s chair, posture erect and expression intent as she watched Sherlock play.

In Sherlock’s chair sat a lovely young woman who could only be Rosie. Her dark auburn hair was done up in an attractive chignon, with wisps of stray strands framing her face and bringing out her bright green eyes. She was bent down in conversation with a small child, a chubby blond toddler who was pointing to something in a picture book. Sitting on the floor beside the toddler was a young man with curly dark hair and a kind face, gazing at the child with a tenderness only a parent could feel.

John knew what all of the clues pointed to, but the conclusions lay unacknowledged in his subconscious. At least for now. For now his attention was drawn to the man playing the violin. Sherlock Holmes. Only now did the details of age become apparent, the things that John’s eye had skipped over earlier. Sherlock’s hair was just as lustrous and curly as it had ever been, but now it could only be described as salt-and-pepper, similar to Greg’s. He hadn’t gained an ounce of fat through the years; rather, his muscle tone remained fit and taut. Age hadn’t yet shrunk him, and his fingers at least had escaped the curse of arthritis, if his nimble playing was anything to go by.  

John swallowed past the lump in his throat. Everyone seemed to be doing -- fine. In his absence (where was he, anyway? Had he really let the estrangement go on for decades?) there was no sign of discontent. Except, where was --

“Thank you, Sherlock,” Molly was saying. Her voice was just as melodious as ever, although strengthened with maturity and confidence. “I don’t know what I’d do if I were stuck at home, alone. First Christmas without - “ she wiped her eyes. “Greg. I miss him so much.” Bitterness crept into her voice. “I can’t help but wish - “

“Don’t, Molly,” Sherlock said kindly as he laid his violin in its case. “I should have recognised the signs sooner.”

“Why would you have? You’re not a doctor. *I* am, but my specialty is corpses! I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, and I know how you felt about him, Sherlock, but -- “ She pressed her lips into a thin line, her face pinched. “John was his doctor; if he had been sober, he probably would have made the correct diagnosis in time. Oh, I’m so sorry Rosie, I know he was your father, but I just can’t forgive him.”

John’s heart felt as if it were trying to escape his rib cage.   _Speak ill of the dead,_ she had said. Then she had spoken of him, in less than flattering terms. Sadness engulfed him. He had always had a good rapport with Molly. Even when his relationship with everybody else, including Sherlock, had been on the rocks, she had remained a good friend. She and Greg both, had been steady as a rock throughout the years. To see that their friendship had disintegrated to such an extent, and that he apparently was at least partially responsible for Greg’s death? It was devastating.

Rosie was picking up her child and situating him (maybe her?) on her lap along with the picture book. She shook her head, a pained look on her face. “Molly, you have every right. I loved my father, dearly, but he made his bed and continued to lie in it, year after year. The only surprise is that *he’s* the one who managed to drink himself to death, and not Aunt Harry. Although that’s only what I’ve been told, since I’ve only ever known a sober Harriet Watson. Hard to believe some of the stories about her. Must have really turned over a new leaf, become almost a completely different person. It’s too bad she and Clara decided to spend Christmas on a cruise this year, it’s been too long since I’ve seen them.”

John couldn’t stop staring at what could only be his grandchild, sporting Rosie’s nose and the father’s chin. The child couldn’t be any older than three, and John was already absent from his/her life. There should have been many years stretching ahead of them yet, with perhaps more grandchildren to know in those years to come. But it was not to be.

“I know when it must have started. The slide into alcoholism,” John said. He knew he was only confessing this to the spirit at his side, but he felt as ashamed as if he were admitting it to the actual Mycroft Holmes.

“It was last night, as a matter of fact. Hadn’t touched a drop in three years. Not since the night I drank too much and left Rosie at Baker Street without realisin’ until the next morning. Figured I would nip that right in the bud, given my family history, and… well, if I’m being honest, my *own* history. So I quit, cold turkey. Then I slipped last night. Got out the bottle of whisky that Sherlock and I were supposed to drink for New Year’s that year and never did. Didn’t drink that much at the time, but it must have been the start. Of this,” John waved his hand at the scene before him. “Of my absence here. Of Greg’s absence. Really made a right mess of things, haven’t I?”

The spirit by his side remained silent. He reminded John of the bloody Grim Reaper, only instead of a scythe, an umbrella was cradled against his shoulder, curved end up. The image was so incongruous that John snorted in amusement. “Are you really not going to say a word? By the way, whatever happened to that Neil character? Did Sherlock continue seeing him? Are they still together?”

As expected, the spirit remained mute.

“Can you show me *any* insight into your brother? Some information to be going on with? Why bring me here if you didn’t want me to learn what becomes of Sherlock, besides the fact that he lives in a cottage, keeps bees, and seems to have maintained human connections far better than I managed to do?”

Mycroft snapped his fingers, and the room dimmed considerably. The only figure remaining was sitting on the sofa, soaking up the fire's heat.  Sherlock had on the same clothes as earlier, and the Christmas tree still stood blinking in the corner. Must be later that same evening, then, after the guests had either retired or gone home.

Sherlock was staring into the flames as he stroked something that he held in his hands. At first John thought it was the skull, and felt hilarity bubble up inside him. Then he got a closer look, and drew up short. His insides filled with ice water.

Sherlock was cradling a square wooden box that had a small golden plaque on the top with the engraving ‘JHW’ in bold black letters. He started speaking, as if he knew that John was present and could actually hear him. His voice was just as rich and deep as John remembered, and it sent a shiver of _something_ up John’s spine.

“I tried the best I could, John,” Sherlock said. His fingers unconsciously traced the letters of John’s initials. “To live my life to the fullest, without you.” He huffed out a laugh that lacked humour. “Took your advice, to pursue some sort of romantic entanglement. Just as a lark, really. An experiment, as it were, for my amusement more than anything else. To see if maybe, just maybe, anything could come close to what I felt for you. Nothing did, of course.

“The cases kept me sane. I kept working, and it was as satisfying as it could be, without you by my side. The best life that I could reasonably hope for, really. I learned that I had more friends than I thought I did, and sometimes they were the only reason I held on. Knowing that I was worth something to _somebody,_ to more than _one_ somebody. Never thought I could have that.

“Did you know that this cottage was the one Janine bought, with the earnings she garnered from those tabloid interviews?” John sucked in a breath. Now there was a name he hadn’t heard in ages. “She sold it to me about a year after Mary died. Knew I’d be upset if she really did get rid of the hives.” Sherlock smiled.

“I thought that you and I would end up here, together. I had hoped, anyway.” Sherlock hung his head and squeezed his eyes shut. He sat like that for several minutes before he opened his eyes and stared right at the spot where John stood.

“I missed you, John. So much. For so many years.” John stood stock still, entranced by those changeable eyes boring into his own, as if Sherlock could actually *see* him. He watched the fire reflected in Sherlock’s eyes, the dancing flames calling attention to the sheen of moisture that was present.

“You kept in touch with all of our mutual friends, who in turn kept me apprised, but little by little you loosened your grip on all of them. Even your own daughter, John. I had to give her away at her wedding because you were too hungover to attend. You didn’t go to William’s christening.”

William. Rosie had named her son William, after Sherlock.

 

_Sherlock is actually a girl’s name._

 

“You became less and less the man that I had known and loved. But most of this was hearsay, second hand knowledge, so I still held onto hope.”

Sherlock’s eyes changed, into shards of blue ice. John’s blood ran cold.

“Then everything with Greg went down, and you couldn’t even be arsed to be there for Molly. Or to attend his funeral.” Sherlock’s grip on the urn tightened, his knuckles white. “The last two people you deigned to keep in your life, after Mrs Hudson died, and you threw it all away.”

John swallowed. His chest was tight and his face burned with shame. But Sherlock wasn’t done.

“You died six months ago, John, but the man I loved died long ago. And it’s time I let go of the image I’ve held of you in my mind and heart for so many years. Because it’s a lie. And you’ll remember that I’ve always been in pursuit of the truth, no matter how painful.” Tears were now streaming down Sherlock’s face, but his face was hard, as if chiselled from marble.

Sherlock stood up and walked forward towards the fireplace. He pulled aside the glass barrier and knelt on the hearth. He opened the urn, and unceremoniously dumped its contents over the flames.

“Goodbye, John,” he intoned without inflection. He carelessly dropped the urn on the floor. The lid came off and rolled under the sofa. Sherlock stood up, movements jerky, and disappeared into his bedroom, closing the door with a thud.

The fire flickered one last time before it died, snuffed out by John’s ashes.

 

Forgetting his situation, John ran to the bedroom door and pounded on it with both fists. “Sherlock! Sherlock, open up! I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, for everything.” He slid down to the floor, hands pressed against the wood. He was openly sobbing now, and he didn’t even care.

“Please. Sherlock. I’m sorry. Forgive me, for all the hurt that I caused you. I was so angry. So angry, for all the choices I made and how they turned out. But they were _my_ choices, and I’d make them all over again because I belong with you, Sherlock. Through thick and thin. Just the two of us against the rest of the world.”

John lost track of how long he sat huddled on the cold, hard floor. Apparently the answer was, as long as it took for his hiccoughs to subside and his tears to stop flowing. The length of time it took to come to his senses and think: _I should be telling the real Sherlock this. Not some phantom in some possible future._ _Possible future…._

John turned panicked eyes to the spirit. He sprang up from the floor, grabbed the figure’s sleeve and pleaded.

“Please, tell me that these things aren’t set in stone. Give me a chance to make amends, to change my ways. Please! Myc -- Spirit, I beg of you. Send me back. Don’t leave me here in this place. Don’t let this be my legacy. I have to tell him. I have to tell...”

‘Mycroft’ shrugged his arm out of John’s grip. His finger of judgement reached out, and the icy digit tapped twice against John’s forehead.

 

When John next came to his senses, he was standing next to his own sitting room window. The light of early morning was bleeding through and around the curtains. A new day was dawning.

 

Christmas Day.

 

 

 

  


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to apologize for the lateness of this chapter. On the plus side, it's the longest one, and much fluffier than what came before ;)
> 
> This story is complete, but I do have intentions of writing an epilogue at some point. No promises when, because as you can see my muse can be fickle. I have an idea to look in on an alternate future for Sherlock and John, one that is far different from the one he saw during his ghostly visitations. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy, and I hope everybody had a joyous holiday. I wish everyone success within this brand new year.

 

John whipped open the curtains, and took in the scene outdoors. There was a light dusting of snow on the ground and on the tree branches, just enough to be able to say that this was a White Christmas. The sky was clear and cloudless, with little pinpoints of light still visible but gradually fading away under the onslaught of the rising sun. It was going to be a cold, beautiful day.

The neighbor boy was walking along the pavement -- Jason? Jeremy? -- the one who was always bringing his kid brother over to play with Rosie. Around fifteen years old, he seemed intent on a mission.

John threw open the sash and yelled out, “Hey there! Jeremy?”

The kid turned his head and paused. “Doctor Watson?”

John breathed out an internal sigh of relief. He got the name right; that was always a plus for maintaining good relations with the neighbors. He knew that he had been a mighty grump of late -- the past few years, actually -- so he hoped the kid wouldn’t be too intimidated. Then again, he  _ was  _ a teenager.

“Could you tell me what day it is, lad?”

Jeremy gave him a strange look. “It’s Christmas Day, Sir.”

“Right. And… erm.. This is going to sound strange...but could you tell me what year?”

In for a penny, in for a pound. John would much rather be thought of as “that batshit crazy old looney tune” than as “that miserable old Scrooge”.

“Um… it’s 2024, Sir.”

John closed his eyes. “Thank Christ.”

Had it all been a dream, then? If it was, then he must have been sleepwalking, to wake up here in the sitting room. And if it had been? It really made no difference, did it? 

John leaned out a little further, hands resting on the windowsill. He turned his face up into the rising sun and let a smile spread across his face.

Home. He was  _ home _ , in the right Christmas, with all of the right people still alive and available to reach out to. Still around to mend relationships with.

He opened his eyes and beamed at Jeremy. “Excellent. Oh! Why don’t you come around to the front door, I have something for you.”

John pulled his head back inside and shut the window, locking it down tight. He strode over to his desk and grabbed his wallet. Opening it up, he took out a generous number of bills. When a knock came on his door, he opened it up and waved the money under the kid’s nose.

“Merry Christmas, Jeremy. It has come to my attention that I’ve neglected to pay you for all the yard work you did for me last summer. I did promise you, and I broke that promise.”

Stunned, Jeremy took the money and just stared at it. He lifted shy eyes to John’s.

“S--Sir? 

John clapped his hands on both of Jeremy’s shoulders. “Enjoy, kid. There might not be much open today, but take advantage of some of the sales going on tomorrow.”

“Th.. thank you, Sir! And Merry Christmas, Sir!” The young man spun around, and vibrating with excitement, he practically jogged the rest of his way home.

John shut the door. Turning around, his gaze flicked over the barren, undecorated sitting room. He had always previously made at least a minimum effort, for Rosie’s sake, to have some Christmas cheer put up during the holidays, including a real tree. This year, the only thing he had managed to pull together was a cheap artificial one that he had set up in Rosie’s room. 

Tendrils of self-loathing tried to insinuate themselves into his consciousness, but he put a vicious mental foot down and  _ focussed. _

He clapped his hands together and said out loud, “Time to get moving. Lots to do today. First order of business: get dressed.”

 

+++

 

The doorbell rang at 8:00 a.m sharp. A bleary-eyed Clara looked up from her first cup of coffee of the day and groaned. “My god, who is  _ that _ at this god-awful hour of the morning? Harry, you’re more put together than I am, would you please go answer that and immediately send them away?”

Rosie came skipping out of the guest bedroom, already dressed up in the new velvet dress that Harry had gifted her with last night. “I’ll get it!” she yelled with youthful enthusiasm. Both of her aunts gave each other a relieved look as they both went back to contemplating the dark liquid in their cups.

“Daddy!”

“Ooomph!” John almost dropped the large bag of gifts he was carrying as Rosie threw herself at him, wrapping herself around him in a full body hug. 

“I thought you weren’t coming today!”

John returned his daughter’s hug with a tight one-armed embrace that went on for awhile. He kissed the top of her head and smiled down at her. “Don’t you look pretty?”

“Are those  _ my  _ presents?”

“Indeed! The ones that were under your tree waiting for your return tomorrow. But I think you should open them today, don’t you?”

“Yessss!!’

“Great. Now, can we go inside? Where are your aunties?”

“Aunt Harry! Aunt Clara! Daddy’s here!”

John grinned as he walked in the door. “I come bearing gifts!”

Two dressing gown-clad women, hair sticking up every which way and pillow creases still on their cheeks, stood glowering at him with their arms crossed.

John’s smile faltered. “Oh. Ah… am I a bit early, then?”

 

+++

 

An hour later, the four of them (all of whom were now dressed and at least semi put-together)  were sitting on the floor in front of the tree and opening gifts. Well, mostly it was the three of them watching Rosie open hers. John relished the delight that only a young child could exhibit on Christmas morning. When she had finished opening all of hers, she shyly handed John a package that he recognised from his ‘vision’ the night before. He smiled at her, and unwrapped a handmade coffee mug with the words ‘World’s Best Dad’ painted on it. 

“I made that in school,” Rosie said, proud yet anxious.

John swallowed. “I love it, sweetheart. Thank you very much. I’ll use it every morning for my first cup of coffee.” He vowed to himself then and there that he would be the father that Rosie deserved.

Rosie beamed at him. John’s heart swelled.

Harry was dressed and hair done up the exact same way the ghost of Christmas Past had appeared. John blinked as the feeling of unreality washed over him yet again. Harry looked at him with narrowed eyes.

“Did you do something different? You look… younger, somehow.”

“What? You just saw me yesterday.”

“Yeah, I know, just -- “ she waved a hand at him. “Something’s different. You look  _ happy.” _

“Let’s just say I’ve had an epiphany.” John smiled serenely.

“Does it have something to do with that Sherlock bloke?” Clara asked, smiling knowingly.

“Um -- well, sort of. That’s not the whole story, though. Speaking of which, I do need to take off for a bit, stop in on some people that I haven’t seen in awhile.”

“Daddy, are you going to see Sherlock?” Rosie asked. The hopefulness in her voice made John’s heart hurt.

“I was hoping to, sweetheart. If all goes well, I can take you to see him later today. Would you like that?”

Harry and Clara exchanged surprised looks. 

“Yes, Daddy, please! But I’d like to stay here for awhile, and play with Amy and Rory when they get here.”

“But of course. Oh shoot.. Before I forget.” John shot a somewhat guilty look towards his sister and sister-in-law. “I - I have something for the both of you as well. I’ve had it for - awhile now, was going to give it to you at Christmas - “ he swallowed hard.  The day after he had left Sherlock’s flat in a drunken stupor, leaving Rosie behind, he and Rosie had been meant to attend Christmas dinner with Harry and Clara. They never went, and the gift that he had got them had remained shoved back on a shelf in his wardrobe. 

“Anyway, I brought you this.” He went to the bag that he had brought with him and retrieved an additional package. “It’s -- I got this during the last case I went on with Sherlock. When we went to Spain, remember?” He handed over the package, face pink. He leaned in and whispered, “Unwrap it later, when you’re alone. It’s -- meant to be enjoyed by two people in an intimate setting, if you get my drift.”

Clara grinned. “That’s right, we had just remarried a month before that Christmas, hadn’t we?” She lowered her voice. “Did you get us a newlywed type present, John?” She winked.

“Why, yes. Yes I did. I’m sure you won’t have any complaints.”

 

* * *

John walked down the pavement with a spring in his step. Given how pleasant the weather was, he had parked the car several streets away from Baker Street and decided to walk the rest of the way. He could certainly use the exercise, and he wanted to soak up all of the sights and sounds that he had either been numb to, or simply not present for. The decorations and lights that splashed themselves across every building and street post, instead of making his skin itch and his mouth turn down, now served to energize him and fill him with hope. The ghost of Christmas Present’s words were an echo at the back of his mind - “You’ll just have to show up before then” - and yet his sense of urgency had calmed a bit after his visit with his family. He knew from past experience that Mrs Hudson’s celebrations never started until mid-afternoon. It wasn’t even eleven yet. Plenty of time to confront Sherlock before anybody - including Neil - showed up.

He was lost in several happy thoughts when the sound of an idling car penetrated his awareness. He turned around, and his mood immediately soured. A large black town car with blacked-out windows was slowly following him. 

John thought of just ignoring it, but he was pretty sure he would be roughly manhandled into it if he tried. Might as well get it other with.

As he slid into the backseat, he was unsurprised to see the elder Holmes brother. Unsurprised, but certainly not happy.

“Not really in the mood, Mycroft. What do you want?”

Mycroft turned to look at him, and John was brought up short. He hadn’t seen Mycroft in years, and he didn’t look at all like the man John remembered. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. He looked like the man he had known when John had first met him. But not at all like the man he had come to know after Sherrinford.  _ That  _ Mycroft had, over the years, softened a considerable degree, letting his Ice Man personae thaw bit by bit. It had been a very slow, very gradual process, but it had happened. John remembered witnessing the relationship between the brothers warm as they reconnected over their shared past, and feeling very glad for it.

But the man John saw before him now exhibited no signs of warmth. John shivered, pulling his jacket tighter around himself. He had felt the same way around Mycroft’s doppelganger, the ghost that had shown him the future. A sense of foreboding settled around John’s heart, trying to smother the recent joy he had just acquired.

“I’m just offering you a helping hand, Doctor Watson. Giving you a lift to Baker Street. That *is* where you’re headed, yes?”

John sighed. So that’s how it was going to be. “You know it is.”

“I trust I don’t have to remind you that -- “

“Yes, yes, I know,” John clipped out. “If I want to re-insinuate myself into your brother’s life, then I must change my ways, or the force of the entire British Government will rain down on my head, right?” He turned his eyes from Mycroft and stared straight ahead. “Look. I never told you how grateful I was for the car you sent that night. Or for texting me the next morning and letting me know that you and Sherlock had taken Rosie to your parents for Christmas, that she was happy and safe. And yes, I know I’ve been a right arse, and not only towards Sherlock.”

“That’s good to know,” Mycroft said, his voice frosty. “So what are your intentions?”

John steeled himself, and met Mycroft’s gaze with determination. “I have no control over how Sherlock will receive me. Maybe he wants nothing more to do with me, and that would be well within his rights. Maybe he’ll refuse to see me altogether. Again, his choice. And I’ll respect it whatever it is.” John took a deep breath. “But no matter what, I’m determined to change my behaviour from here on out. Whatever the outcome, Mycroft. It can’t be worse…” John swallowed. “Than I’ve already seen. Something has to change, and it might as well start with me.”

Mycroft studied him for an additional few minutes. Minutes that felt like hours. John was beginning to feel the urge to squirm when Mycroft said, “Yes, I thought so. The events of the night got through to you then?”

John stared. “What? Did you -- wait. Do you have cameras installed in my house??”

Mycroft just gave him an enigmatic look. He wasn’t quite smiling, but his lips weren’t pressed into a thin line anymore either. 

“What do you know about what happened last night? And did you have anything to do with it? And if so,  _ how?” _

Mycroft leaned forward and tapped the divider with his umbrella. The car slowed until it halted, directly in front of 221 Baker Street.

Mycroft leaned back. “Has it crossed your mind to  wonder why you aren’t dragging with exhaustion right now, given that you were supposedly up all night?”

John’s mouth fell open. “What are you saying?”

Then Mycroft did something John had never seen him do. He  _ winked. _

“Time to go and change things, John Watson.”

 

* * *

John oscillated on the pavement in front of those familiar black doors for what felt like ages. It’s not like he hadn’t been here fairly recently. He’d visited Mrs Hudson just last… month. Shit. He really needed to start being a better surrogate son.

He still had the key Sherlock had given him after the house had been rebuilt. Whenever visiting Mrs Hudson he would just let himself into the entryway before knocking on the door to her flat. Great way to escape the attention of the upstairs tenant.

Except this time, he meant to climb those stairs and confront both his darkest fears and his deepest desires.

_ Pluck up your courage, Watson. You’ll need it now more than ever. Remember what the spirits showed you. What did you learn? _

As he unlocked the door, he failed to notice the curtains of the second floor window twitching.

  
John had finally made it up the seventeen steps, when the door to the flat opened before he had a chance to knock.

Sherlock was dressed in the same clothes John had seen during his preview into today’s events, minus shoes and socks, and with his shirt untucked. His bare feet flexed, long toes curling into the carpet.  John couldn’t help himself; his eyes drank in the sight of those pale, smooth appendages and travelled upward, pausing for a second on the mole peeking out from under his collar, and finally landing on Sherlock’s face. God, he was beautiful, even with confusion etched on his features. Those changeable eyes, his slightly disheveled hair with a lock hanging over his forehead, the way he held himself as he conducted his own scrutiny of John from head to toe, deduction sparking in his eyes. John had just seen him the night before during his ‘travels’, but standing before him in the flesh for the first time in… well, too long… John felt himself fall in love all over again.

After an indeterminate amount of time, Sherlock cleared his throat. “John.”

Hearing that voice in person after so long, John felt shaken to his core. He nodded, suddenly very, very nervous. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock continued to stand there, staring and blinking. After a few minutes, John shuffled his weight from one foot to the other. Amusement welled up in him despite himself. “Um… still a bit scary, that.”

Sherlock gave himself a shake. His face turned pink. “Sorry, I… where are my manners. Come on in.” Sherlock opened the door wider and stepped aside so John could step through.

John tried not to let the memories of the last time he was here wash over him. He was only partially successful.

He cleared his throat, eyes darting everywhere but Sherlock’s face. “I…erm.. This might seem to be coming from out of the blue, but -- “ His courage failed him as the thought occurred that the direct route might not be the best option straight away. But if not now, when?

 

_ The things you wanted to say, but never did. Say them now. _

 

“Do you mind if we sit?” 

“Not at all. Your chair -- feel free to sit where you usually do. Did. Would you like some tea?”

So unfailingly polite. It made John inwardly cringe. 

“No thanks.”

“All right.” Sherlock sat across from John in his own chair and crossed his legs. “Why are you here, John? Why now?”

“Well. It’s Christmas Day.”

“Yes?”

John smiled weakly. “Merry Christmas?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and frowned. “Merry Christmas. Now that  _ that’s  _ over with, please explain.”

John sighed. He forced himself to lock eyes with Sherlock and hold his gaze. “Look, I’m just going to say it, all right? Like I said, you might think this is coming out of nowhere, but --” John blew out a breath.

“Sherlock, look. When you asked me to move back in, you were offering me everything I ever wanted but couldn’t ask for. The last true home I knew was Baker Street, and I’ve been homesick for it for ages. Do you know why? Because it’s where  _ you  _ are, Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinked. His grip on the armrests tightened. “I don’t understand.”

John gave him a warm smile. “I know you don’t. But listen. I have existed in a default state of anger, pretty much ever since you threw yourself off a building.” He held up a hand before Sherlock could object. “Yes, I know you’ve apologised for that. And I have a feeling that everything you’ve done since then has been to make up for that. And you have, many times over.

“What I mean to say is -- yes, I’ve let anger and resentment build up inside of me, some of it directed towards you. But honestly, most of it towards myself.”

Sherlock leaned forward, body vibrating with barely-suppressed emotion. “John. If you’re trying to say that you accept my offer, then you must know - “

“No, I mean, yes… Sherlock, please, just let me finish. This needs to be said.”

Sherlock growled with frustration. “Then get on with it, please.”

John chuckled. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you? Anyway... I let so many chances slip by to tell you how I really felt, and I kept leaving it too late. Every time I was given a second chance, then a third… I failed to take action. And yet, I kept letting myself get sucked back into your orbit, with cases and adventures, and it was as if we  _ belonged _ together. In effect, I  _ was  _ choosing you, over and over again. But I couldn’t admit it, because how could that be a good thing when it kept going wrong, from your fake suicide to everything else that happened since….

“All of those conflicting emotions kept building up inside me until I projected them all onto you in the morgue, taking all of my self-loathing out on you. Instead of being your doctor, I became your abuser, and I can never apologise enough for that, Sherlock. Not ever.”

“John. That’s all water under the bridge, from so long ago, none of that matters anymore --”

“But it all needed to be said, Sherlock. And then what happened that night you asked me to move back in… you kissed me, and all of my dreams seemed to be within my grasp… and then I panicked. I wanted everything you were offering, but I didn’t think it could possibly be real. You implied that you had certain feelings for me, but you hadn’t yet said the words… well. Not to my face at least.”

Sherlock gave him an odd look. John hastened on. “And that brings us to the crux of the matter. The reason why I’m here. I wanted to tell you, Sherlock -- that I love you, too. Have for a very long time. And that’s why Baker Street is home. Because the man I love is here. That’s you, by the way. Rosie and I would be honoured to accept your offer, if you still want us. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Even retire with you to your cottage in Sussex someday, if that’s what you want.”

Sherlock’s face was expressing a myriad of emotions all at once; John could imagine that he was experiencing whiplash from all of the information being dumped on him at once. 

“What -- how do you know about the cottage?”

John smiled. “I have my sources. Is that where you spent Christmas the past few years?”

Sherlock looked away. “Yes. This time of year proved -- difficult for me, and I needed to get away from any and all reminders. Seemed a good place to do it. I was able to clear my head.”

John nodded. “Good. That’s good.”

Sherlock licked his lips. “John, I - I thought that you chalked everything up that night to our inebriated states, and that you regretted it because you didn’t  _ actually _ feel any of those things. Or even worse, you didn’t remember any of it and didn’t want to. I didn’t try to reach out, because for the first time in my life, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the truth.”

“You were scared.”

Sherlock frowned. “I experienced doubt.”

“Sure. Let’s call it that.” 

“It goes without saying that I love you as well.”

“I know.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to John’s lips then back to his eyes. The movement only lasted a bare second if that, but John caught it. 

“John. Are we finished talking about  _ feelings _ ? Because I’d really like to kiss you now.”

 

+++

 

Kissing Sherlock was everything John remembered, and yet completely different. He was stretched out once again on the sofa, just like he had been before, with Sherlock lying on top of him and giving him sweet, languid kisses. Clear-headed this time, and secure in the knowledge that this was what they both wanted, John let himself soak in all of the love and tenderness being offered him by this incredible man. There was no urgency, and the arousal was a low simmer; still there, but background noise to the feelings that really mattered. 

They had been leisurely snogging for about ten minutes, when a thought occurred that John knew he had to address. 

He pulled back, just enough to put an inch of space between their lips. 

“Sherlock,” he said softly. “I have to ask -- who’s Neil, and what is he to you?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and blew out an irritated breath. “Mycroft. I knew there was a logical explanation and that you aren’t actually telepathic.” 

John just smiled, and didn’t correct him.

“Neil is someone I met when I was in America during my -- time away. He was a consultant for the FBI, and he assisted me in rounding up some of Moriarty’s gang.” *

A thrill of jealousy shot through John at this information. He was able to quickly quell it, but it must have already shown on his face.

“I would have much rather had you with me, John. There was never anything romantic between us, but he did become a good friend. Something similar happened to him recently, and he had to flee the States. He happens to be in London now, and, well -- “

Sherlock blushed. “This is embarrassing,” he muttered.

John grinned. “Just tell me.”

“Well. He’s always looking for a bit of fun, playing pranks, that sort of thing. So, I asked him if he wanted to show up at Baker Street today, posing as my date. So that…” Sherlock rolled his eyes as he forced the rest of the words out, “everyone would quit nagging me and I could show everyone that I was doing  _ just fine,  _ thank you very much.”

John huffed. “I see. So… is he still planning on showing up? Today?”

Sherlock jerked upright, and John mourned the loss of contact immediately. “Oh, hell. I need to call him and cancel.”

“He won’t be too disappointed, will he? I mean, does he have nowhere else to go?” John couldn’t care less either way, but he didn’t want to seem  _ too  _ heartless.”

Sherlock shook his head as he reached for his phone. “Neil knows lots of people in London, he won’t lack for companionship if that’s what he wants. Trust me. He can be -- quite charming. I’m sure you can use your imagination.”

“I don’t have to,” John muttered.

Sherlock shot off a quick text, then turned his entire attention to John. He caressed John’s cheek with the back of his hand, and said, “Now. Where were we?”

 

+++

 

Many snogs and exploratory caresses later, John joined Sherlock downstairs in Mrs Hudson’s flat for the Christmas celebrations. Mrs Hudson squealed and launched herself at him, almost crushing him in her embrace. John returned it full force, lifting her off her feet and twirling her around, making her giggle like a schoolgirl. When he finally released her, she placed a hand on his cheek and smiled at him. 

“Oh John. I don’t know how or why, but I’m so glad you’re here right now.” She looked up at Sherlock, eyes shining. “And I know that Sherlock is ever so grateful as well.”

“Yes, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock grumped, pretending to be embarrassed. “Thank you, is that scones that I smell?”

“My famous Christmas ones, yes. But they aren’t ready yet, so no sampling the wares. By  the way, John, will Rosie be joining us today?”

“She will, Mrs Hudson, but not until later. She wants to spend time with her cousins first.”

“Oh good! I’ll get her present out as well. Oh John! I’m just so happy!” She pinched his cheeks, did a little dance, then skipped back into the kitchen to check on her scones.

John put a hand up to his cheek and smiled. Ordinarily that kind of smothering attention annoyed him, but he endured it to keep the peace. Now, though? Now it felt like a homecoming prize.

Sherlock put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “All right?” he asked.

John gave him a grateful look. “Yeah. It’s … so good to be back.”

Sherlock leaned in to give him a kiss just as the doorbell sounded. He reflexively jerked back, face pinking. “Sorry. Sorry, I… just wasn’t sure how comfortable you’d be… how ready you are to…”

A wave of tenderness swept over John. This man. This gorgeous, incredible man, against all odds, still wanted John in his life. And not only that, but wanted him back in his home, and apparently in his bed as well. How did John get so incredibly lucky? 

“Sherlock,” John said firmly, curling his hand around Sherlock’s neck. “I’m proud to be seen with you. And to be publicly acknowledged as a couple. I don’t mind. Do you?”

“Well. As long as there’s no kissing at crime scenes. I have to draw the line somewhere.”

“Come here, you.”

And so it was that Sherlock and John were caught snogging by Greg and Molly when they were escorted in by Mrs Hudson. 

“Finally!” Molly exclaimed, which served to finally make them step back from each other, but with shoulders still brushing. “John, I’m happy to see you finally got your head out of your arse. And Sherlock, lovely to see you too, as always.”

Greg chuckled. “Too bad that pool at the Yard isn’t still running. Good to see you two together again. And  _ together _ .” He winked. 

Sherlock groaned. “Greg,” he pleaded.

“Good to see you haven’t forgotten his name in my absence,” John laughed. “We just had you trained!” John walked up to Greg and gave him a firm handshake. He clapped a hand on his arm and gave it a squeeze.  John honestly wanted to give him a manly hug, but thought that would probably be a step too far. 

“How’ve you been, Greg? Feeling alright?”

“Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Getting at that age when you need regular checkups with a GP. Don’t let that kind of thing slide, yeah?”

“Oi! I’m not that old yet.”

“Yeah you are.”

“Whatever, Watson. Where’s this coming from, anyway?”

John shrugged. “I’m a doctor. It’s my job to make sure my friends are doing the sensible thing. Hey, Sherlock, why don’t you go fetch your violin. I’m dying to hear ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.’”

 

* * *

Later that night, with Rosie safe with Mrs Hudson downstairs, John and Sherlock finally came together. After so many years of tension and longing, John expected things to be over rather quickly. Maybe it was their age and reduced hormone level that took the edge off the urgency. Whatever it was, John was grateful for it, as it allowed them to enjoy a slow buildup of passion and arousal that culminated in very satisfying, if not explosive, mutual orgasms. 

After all of the pleasure had been wrung out of them -- twice -- they lay in Sherlock’s bed, face to face. The moonlight brought Sherlock’s features out in stark relief. John thought he couldn’t look more beautiful.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get you a gift,” John said. “By the time I had made the decision to come, it was Christmas Day and nothing was open.”

“John. As I have already told you, you and Rosie moving in will be our gifts to each other. That’s all I want or need.” He reached for John’s hand and placed a feathery light kiss on his knuckles. “It’s all I ever wanted.”

“Yeah,” John said softly. “Me too. You know I still have most of that Drambuie left that you got me. We can pour some on New Year’s Eve, like we had originally planned. Well. You and Mrs Hudson can. I know you got it for me, but I really should...”

“I understand, John. You don’t want to risk going down a certain road.”

“Right. Thank you.”

“So when do you and Watson want to move in?”

A slow, contented smile spread across John’s face. “Right after the new year. Seems appropriate, don’t you think?”

  
  


As the two of them drifted off in each other’s arms, John dreamed. He dreamed of a future where he and Sherlock travelled the same road, side by side. He dreamed of bees and of honey-soaked kisses. He dreamed of a cottage in Sussex, where instead of one place setting at the table there were two.

 

Just the two of them against the rest of the world.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tend to overthink and over-complicate things in all areas of my life, and writing is no exception. The idea for this story first came to be more than a month ago, just out of the blue, and so I started writing it right away without a clear endpoint in mind. I decided to trust the process. Then my brain got in the way, so I do hope that everything makes sense and serves the story. I worried about an earlier chapter, where I started thinking maybe I wasn't being as clear as I should be. But it was already posted, so I decided to leave it be. Hopefully everything does tie together well here at the end.

**Author's Note:**

> Please do let me know if anything needs to be tagged that isn't. Thank you!


End file.
